The Stranger's Child Part 8

'I expect he wrote something or other. Cess is rarely at a loss for words.'

'I expect he's left it somewhere,' Daphne said, and spread some b.u.t.ter on her toast, though really her smothered anxiety had squeezed up her appet.i.te to nothing. She looked at her brother with a cold smile. 'So what are you doing today, George?' she said, conscious of denying him a talk on the obvious subject.

'Eh? Oh, I'll find something,' he said, with a hint of pathos. He was leaning against the doorpost, neither in nor out, the maid sidling past him back into the hall. Daphne saw him decide to speak, and as he started airily, 'No, it was a shame Cecil couldn't stay longer . . .' she said. 'I've invited Olive for tea tomorrow, I haven't seen her since they got back from Dawlish.' She knew Olive Watkins was small beer after Cecil, and Dawlish after the Dolomites, and she felt ashamed and almost sad as well as defiant in mentioning her. But she couldn't indulge George in his present mood. It rubbed up too closely against her own.

'Oh, have you . . .' said George, startled and bored. Daphne saw she'd produced a particular kind of family atmosphere, and that itself was depressing after the wider horizons of Cecil's visit. Also, she really wanted her book back, to show Olive whatever it was that Cecil had written. This had been her main purpose in asking her to tea.

Then Veronica, with her own bored persistence, looked back in and said, 'I asked Jonah, miss. He's having a look.'

'Thank you,' said Daphne, feeling oppressed now by the public nature of the search.

'Jonah's looking in his room now. I mean he's looking in Mr Valance's room!'

And George, without saying anything more, drifted away, and then Daphne heard him going, rather stealthily she thought, upstairs as well, two at a time. She told herself, without fully believing it, that probably, after all, Cecil would have put nothing but his name and the date.

A minute later George came back down, with Jonah at his heels, and Daphne's mauve alb.u.m open in his hands. 'My word, sis . . .' he said abstractedly, turning the page and continuing to read; 'he's certainly done you proud!'

'What is it?' said Daphne, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair but determined to keep her dignity, almost to seem indifferent. Not just his name, then: she could see it was much, much more now that the book was here, open, in the room, she felt quite frightened at the thought of what might come out of it.

'The gentleman left it in the room,' said Jonah, looking from one to the other of them.

'Yes, thank you,' said Daphne. George was blinking slowly and softly biting his lower lip in concentration. He might have been pondering how to break some rather awkward news to her, as he came and sat down across from her, placing the book on the table, then turning the pages back to start again. 'Well, when you've finished,' Daphne said tartly, but also with reluctant respect. What Cecil had written was poetry, which took longer to read, and his handwriting wasn't of the clearest.

'Goodness,' said George, and looked up at her with a firm little smile. 'I think you should feel thoroughly flattered.'

'Oh, really?' said Daphne. 'Should I?' It seemed George was determined to master the poem and its secrets before he let her see a word of it.

'No, this is quite something,' he said, shaking his head as he ran back over it. 'You're going to have to let me copy this out for myself.'

Daphne drained her teacup completely, folded her napkin, glanced across at the two servants, who were smiling stupidly at the successful retrieval of the book, and also formed a somewhat inhibiting audience to this agitating crisis in her life, and then said, as lightly as she could, 'Don't be such a tease, George, let me see.' Of course it was a tease, the latest of thousands, but it was more than that, and she knew resentfully that George couldn't help it.

'Sorry, old girl,' he said, and sat back at last, and slid the alb.u.m towards her.

'Thank you!' said Daphne.

'If you could see your face,' said George.

She pushed her plate aside 'Will you take all this, please,' to the maid; who did so, with gaping slowness, peering at the columns of Cecil's black script as though they confirmed a rather dubious opinion she'd formed of him. 'Thank you,' said Daphne again sharply; and frowned and coloured, unable to take in a word of the poem. She had to find out at once what George meant, that she should be flattered. Was this it, the sudden helpless breaking of the news? Perhaps not, or George would have said something more. The harder she looked at it, the less she knew. Well, it was called, simply, 'Two Acres', and it ran on over five pages, both sides of the paper she flicked back and forth.

'Formally, it's rather simple,' said George, 'for Cecil.'

'Well, quite,' said Daphne.

'Just regular tetrameter couplets.'

'That will be all,' said Daphne, and waited while Veronica and Jonah went off. Really they were most irritating. She flicked further back for a moment, to the Revd Barstow, with his scholarly flourish, 'B. A. Dunelm'; and then forward to Cecil, who had broken all the rules of an autograph book with his enormous entry, and made everyone else look so feeble and dutiful. It was unmannerly, and she wasn't sure if she resented it or admired it. His writing grew smaller and faster as it sloped down the page. On the first page the bottom line turned up sideways at the end to fit in 'Chaunticleer', she read, which was a definite poetry word, though she wasn't precisely sure of its meaning.

'I suppose he'll be publis.h.i.+ng it somewhere,' said George, 'the Westminster Review or somewhere.'

'Do you think?' said Daphne, as levelly as she could, but with a quick strong feeling that the poem was hers after all. Cecil hadn't just written it here, in her book, by chance. She was still trying to see if it said things about her personally, or if it was simply about the house and the garden: The Jenny nettle by the wall, That some the Devil's Play-thing call that was a conversation she'd had with him now quite simply turned into poetry. Her father had called stinging nettles Devil's Play-things, it was what they called them in Devon. She felt thrilled, and a little bewildered, at being in on the very making of a poem, and at something else magical, like seeing oneself in a photograph. What else would be revealed?

The book left out beneath the trees, Read over backwards by the breeze.

The spinney where the lisping larches Kiss overhead in silver arches And in their shadows lovers too Might kiss and tell their secrets through.

Again the minutely staggered and then breathtaking merging of word, image and fact. She was really going to have to read this somewhere apart, in private. 'I think it would be most appropriate to read this in the garden,' she said, getting up and feeling very slightly sick; but just then her mother appeared in the doorway, with her heavy morning face, and her bright morning manner. In fact her manner was fl.u.s.tered; there was something behind her smile. Word must already have got through. Beyond her Veronica loitered, the informer.

'Well, child . . . !' her mother said, and gave Daphne a strange, eager look. 'What excitements.'

'Everyone can see it when I've finished reading it,' said Daphne. 'People seem to be forgetting that it's my book.'

'Well, of course, dear,' said her mother, going round the table and opening a window as if to show she had other useful things to do; and then, 'You've obviously made quite an impression . . . on him' not using Cecil's name, out of some awful delicacy. She gave Daphne a teasing glance that had something new to it a sense of girding herself for some welcome parental obligation.

'Mother, he was only here for three nights,' said George, almost crossly. 'All Cecil has done, with his customary generosity, is to write a poem about our house as a thank-you for the visit.'

'I know, dear,' said their mother, with a little flinch at her two p.r.i.c.kly children. 'He's been most generous to Jonah too.'

George got up, and went to the window, and looked out in the manner of someone who wants to say something firm but difficult. 'The poem's really nothing to do with Daphne.'

'Isn't it?' said Daphne, shaking her head. Wasn't it? It was there, she had seen it at once, the lovers' kiss in the shadows, telling their secrets; but of course she couldn't say that to either of them. 'I suppose I should be sorry he didn't write a poem for you.'

George's pitying look was focused on the cherry-trees outside. 'As a matter of fact, he has written a poem for me.'

'Oh, George, you never said,' said their mother. 'You mean just now?'

'No, no last term sometime it really doesn't matter.'

'Well!' said their mother, trying to maintain a tone of bewildered amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Rather a fuss about a poem.'

'There's no fuss, darling,' said George, now in a brightly patient tone.

'It's too lovely to have a poem written for you at all, in my view.'

'I quite agree!' said Daphne, and the feeling that everything was being spoiled welled up inside her.

'I'm beginning to feel very sorry that I mentioned it. If Cecil's visit has to end in this kind of childish bickering.'

'Oh, read it if you want to!' said Daphne, pursing her lips against tears, and flapping through the book to give it to her open at the right page. Her mother looked at her sharply, and after a moment, and quite gently, took it from her.

'Thank you . . . now if the girl could run for my gla.s.ses.' And when Veronica came back, their mother sat down at the dining-table and addressed herself, with a quizzical but sporting look, to the poem that had just been written about her house.

TWO.

Revel

Man must say farewell To parents now, And to William Tell, And Mrs Cow.

Edith Sitwell, 'Jodelling Song'

1.

From where she sat, in the window of the morning-room, the two figures seemed to hurry towards each other. Above the long hedge at the end of the formal garden, a man's head, jerking with the lurch of a limp, moved impatiently along. 'Rubbis.h.!.+' he shouted. 'Rubbis.h.!.+' Whilst away to the right, between the hazily green horse-chestnuts of the park, a s.h.i.+ny beige car was approaching, its windscreen flas.h.i.+ng in the sun.

'D', she wrote, and hesitated, with her nib on the paper. Not Darling, so 'Dear' certainly, and then another pause, which theatened to turn into a blot, before she added 'est': 'Dearest Revel'. One went up and down the scale with people certainly among their set there were startling advances in closeness, which sometimes were followed by coolings just as abrupt. Revel, though, was a family friend, the superlative quite proper. 'It is too awful about David,' she went on, 'and you have all my sympathy' but she thought, what one really needed was a scale below 'Dear', since often one had no time whatever for the person one was warmly embracing on the page: 'Untrustworthy Jessica', 'Detestable Mr Carlton-Brown'.

She heard the car stop outside, the swift jangle of the bell, footsteps and then voices. 'Is Lady Valance in?' 'I believe she's in the morning-room, madam. Shall I-' 'Oh, I won't disturb her.' 'I can tell her' Wilkes giving her a clear chance to do the right thing. 'No, don't bother. I'll go straight through to the office.' 'Very good, madam.' It was a small contest of wills, in which the subtle but hamstrung Wilkes was trounced by the forthright Mrs Riley. A minute later he came in to cast an eye at the fire, and said, 'Mrs Riley has come, my lady. She went through to the office, as she calls it.'

'Thank you, I heard her,' said Daphne, looking up and lightly covering the page with her sleeve. She shared a moment's oddly intimate gaze with Wilkes. 'I expect she had her plans with her?'

'She appeared to, madam.'

'These plans!' said Daphne. 'We're not going to know ourselves soon.'

'No, madam,' said Wilkes, pa.s.sing his white-gloved hand into the black mitten that was kept in the log-basket. 'But they are still only plans.'

'Hmm. You mean they may not come off?'

Wilkes smiled rather strictly as he lodged a small branch on the top of the pyre, and controlled the ensuing tumble of ash and sparks. 'Perhaps not fully, madam, no; and in any case, not . . . irreversibly.' He went on confidentially, 'I understand Lady Valance is with us on the dining-room.'

'Well, she's rarely an advocate for change,' said Daphne a little drily, but with respect for the butler's old allegiances. With two Lady Valances in the house, there were niceties of expression which even Wilkes was sometimes tripped up by. 'Though last night she claimed to find the new drawing-room "very restful".' She turned back to what she had written, and Wilkes, after a few more testing pokes at the fire, went out of the room.

'Perhaps best not to come this weekend we have a houseful with much family &c (my mother) on top of which Sebby Stokes is coming down to look at Cecil's poems. It will be somewhat of a "Cecil weekend", and you would barely get a word in! Though perhaps' but here the bracket clock whirred and then hectically struck eleven, its weights spooling downwards at the sudden expense of energy. She had to sit for a moment, when the echo had vanished, to repossess her thoughts. Other clocks (and now she could hear the grandfather in the hall chime in belatedly) showed a more respectful att.i.tude to telling the hour. They struck, all through the house, like attentive servants. Not so that old bra.s.s bully the morning-room clock, which banged it out as fast as it could. 'Life is short!' it shouted. 'Get on with it, before I strike again!' Well, it was their motto, wasn't it: Carpe Diem! She thought better of her 'perhaps', and signed off blandly, 'Love from us both, Duffel.'

She took her letter into the hall, and stood for a moment by the ma.s.sive oak table in the middle of the room. It seemed to her suddenly the emblem and essence of Corley. The children tore round it, the dog got under it, the housemaids polished it and polished it, like votaries of a cult. Functionless, unwieldy, an obstacle to anyone who crossed the room, the table had a firm place in Daphne's happiness, from which she feared it was about to be prised by force. She saw again how imposing the hall was, with its gloomy panelling and Gothic windows, in which the Valance coat of arms was repeated insistently. Would those perhaps be allowed to stay? The fireplace was designed like a castle, with battlements instead of a mantelpiece and turrets on either side, each of which had a tiny window, with shutters that opened and closed. This had come in for particular sarcasm from Eva Riley it was indeed hard to defend, except by saying foolishly that one loved it. Daphne went to the drawing-room door, put her fingers on the handle, and then flung it open as though hoping to surprise someone other than herself.

The off-white dazzle of it, on a bright April morning, was undeniably effective. It was like a room in some extremely expensive sanatorium. Comfortable modern chairs in grey loose covers had replaced the old clutter of cane and chintz and heavy-fringed velvet. The dark dadoed walls and the coffered ceiling, with its twelve inset panels depicting the months, had been smoothly boxed in, and on the new walls a few of the original pictures were hung beside very different work. There was old Sir Eustace, and his young wife Geraldine, two full-length portraits designed to glance tenderly at each other, but now divided by a large almost 'abstract' painting of a factory perhaps or a prison. Daphne turned and looked at Sir Edwin, more respectfully hung on the facing wall, beside the rather chilling portrait of her mother-in-law. This had been done a few years before the War, and showed her in a dark red dress, her hair drawn back, a s.h.i.+ning absence of doubt in her large pale eyes. She was holding a closed fan, like a lacquered black baton. Here nothing came between the couple, but still a vague air of satire seemed to threaten them, in their carved and gilded frames. In the old drawing-room, where the curtains, even when roped back, had been so bulky that they kept out much of the light, Daphne had loved to sit and almost, in a way, to hide; but no such refuge was offered by the new one, and she decided to go upstairs and see if the children were ready.

'Mummy!' said Wilfrid, as soon as she went into the nursery. 'Is Mrs Cow coming?'

'Wilfrid's afraid of Mrs Cow,' said Corinna.

'I am not,' said Wilfrid.

'Why would anyone be afraid of a dear old lady?' said Nanny.

'Yes, thank you, Nanny,' said Daphne. 'Now, my darlings, are you going to give Granny Sawle a special surprise?'

'Will it be the same surprise as last time?' said Corinna.

Daphne thought for a second and said, 'This time it will be a double surprise.' For Wilfrid these rituals, invented by his sister, were still sickeningly exciting, but Corinna herself was beginning to think them beneath her. 'We must all be sweet to Mrs Cow,' Daphne said. 'She is not very well.'

'Is she infectious?' said Corinna, who had only just got over the measles.

'Not that sort of unwell,' said Daphne. 'She has awful arthritis. I'm afraid she's in a great deal of pain.'

'Poor lady,' said Wilfrid, visibly attempting a maturer view of her.

'I know . . .' said Daphne, 'poor lady.' She perched selfconsciously on the upholstered top of the high fender. 'No fire today, then, Nanny?' she said.

'Well, my lady, we thought it was almost nice enough to do without.'

'Are you warm enough, Corinna?'

'Yes, just about, Mother,' said Corinna, and glanced uneasily at Mrs Copeland.

'I am rather cold,' said Wilfrid, who tended to adopt a grievance once it had been pointed out to him.

'Then let's run downstairs and get warmed up,' said Daphne, in happy contravention of Nanny's number one rule, and getting up briskly.

'No two-at-a-time, mind, Wilfrid!' said Nanny.

'You can be sure he will be all right with me,' said Daphne.

When they were out in the top pa.s.sage, Wilfrid said, 'Is Mrs Cow stopping for the night?'

'Wilfrid, of course,' said Corinna, as if at the end of her patience, 'she's coming on the train with Granny Sawle.'

'Uncle George will take them home on Sunday, after lunch,' said Daphne; and finding herself holding his hand, she said, 'I thought it would be nice if you showed her up to her room.'

'Then I will show Granny up to her room,' said Corinna, making it harder for Wilfrid to get out of.

'But what about Wilkes?' said Wilfrid ingeniously.

'Oh, I don't know. Wilkes can put his feet up, and have a nice cup of tea, what do you think?' said Daphne, and laughed delightedly until Wilfrid joined in on a more tentative note.

On the top stairs, they trotted down hand-in-hand, and in step, which did require a measure of discipline. Then from the window on the first-floor landing she saw the car arriving from the station. 'They're here . . . oh, darlings, run!' she said, shaking off the children's hands.